


Five Times Geoff & Ryan Nearly Fell in Love

by nateyface



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Angst, Fake AH Crew, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nateyface/pseuds/nateyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(And One Time They Fell Headfirst) Over the course of their lives, Geoff and Ryan think maybe they’d make a good pair - but other things come up, the wrong things happen, and maybe they’re not meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punkfairyprinxe (punkrockbrucebanner)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=punkfairyprinxe+%28punkrockbrucebanner%29).



> Happy (late) birthday, Nick! Sorry this is going to take 5ever to get done/posted, but it's p much planned out. owo

Nights in Los Santos are rarely this clear; usually the smog and spray-tan dulls the air and Geoff doesn’t feel guilty lighting up a cigarette and puffing smoke in half-assed rings to join the haze. As it turns out, though, if you get far enough from the shore, the whole atmosphere seems to crystallize and glimmer in a way that makes him nostalgic for what ‘nature’ used to mean. Stars shine, the city skyline is almost elegant, and the soft sounds of the ocean lull him into a calmness he can get lost in.

“Happy sweet sixteen, Haywood,” he rasps, passing the kid a beer from their cooler. “The world’s your oyster now.” It feels strange to talk over a night like this, but the way his companion’s young eyes wander the boat aimlessly, it seems he isn’t as enchanted with the evening as Geoff is.

“Thanks, old man,” he answers with a laugh. He looks over the bottle before twisting it open with the fabric of his t-shirt. Geoff cracks his own and takes a deep gulp before Haywood’s even finished inspecting his.

“It’s not gonna bite you, buddy, don’t wig out.” Geoff grins at him.

“I’m not,” Haywood protests. He takes a drink, though his expression twists as he swallows. “Eugh, does all beer taste like this?”

“The cheap stuff does.” Geoff clinks their bottles together. “Cheers, you’re a man now.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay a boy until you find me less disgusting beer.” Despite his complaints, he takes another drink, mimicking the way Geoff holds his bottle like it’s a natural extension of his hand. There’s a long pause after Geoff’s chuckle where there’s nothing but the sway of the sea, and he sets his hand in the narrow space between their seats.

Time stretches, turning a moment into the longest breath Geoff’s ever held; he’s suddenly aware of every nerve of his body and how close they are to Haywood’s goosebumped skin. Kid needs something other than white t-shirts and denim, especially in fucking December… Geoff debates the merits of trying to rub warmth into Haywood’s arm.

“What did you do for _your_ sweet sixteen, Ramsey?” Haywood tips his head back to drink and rests his hand on Geoff’s for just a moment. “Oh - sorry.” Geoff wants to say _it’s fine, you have very nice hands,_ but honestly who says that? It would be weird to notice how much cleaner and softer Haywood’s young hands are than his own. And besides, he was asked a question-- “Geoff?”

“Oh, shoplifted probably.” Geoff grins lopsidedly and runs a hand through his hair. “Got in some fights. No 21-year-old loser to take me out on the water and keep me out of trouble.”

“I’m not sure you’re keeping me out of trouble,” Haywood says, gesturing with his beer. “But thanks.”

“I dunno what you’re thanking me for, kid.” Geoff finishes his drink and eyes the empty bottle. “How far do you think I can throw this?” He waits only to see Haywood’s eyebrow arch skeptically before he stands up and wobbles.

“You should probably sit down.”

“Nah. I throw better standing.” Geoff points a good distance out, toward a cluster of gulls picking at something floating on the surface. “Bet I can reach the gulls. Ten bones.”

“Fine, throw it and sit--”

Haywood doesn’t get the chance to finish, as Geoff overcorrects his balance after the throw and stumbles backward out of the boat. To Geoff, the fall is in slow-motion but unstoppable, a trick of the neurons that makes it almost a chore to wait through the whole event; to Haywood, it seems that in one moment Geoff is there, and in the next, half his body is stinging with cold seawater and the only sign of Geoff is the end of an oar disappearing under the surface.

Geoff blinks his stinging eyes but it’s too dark under the water - he has no sense of how deep he is or where the sea floor could be. Night rowing sounds like a damn awful idea now that he’s freezing his ass off and rapidly beginning to panic about breathing. He takes a guess at which direction is up, kicks off his shoes, and swims. Helpfully, Haywood starts beating the water’s surface with the other oar, making splashes Geoff can motor toward with everything he’s got. He breaks the surface with a noise like a whale’s cry and coughs up a lungful of sea crap.

“Fuck, are you okay, Ramsey?” Haywood reaches out a hand, which Geoff gratefully takes as soon as he clears the ocean from his vision. “I gotcha, come on…” In his haste to get Geoff safely into the boat, he drops the other oar, which quickly vanishes into the inky depths.

“M’fine.” Geoff shivers hard as he takes the seat across from the kid. “Just a - just a moment…” He coughs roughly over the side of the boat and spits a few times. His nose and eyes burn with salt, and his mouth tastes fucking awful, not to mention how much worse a December night gets when you’re soaking wet.

“Ramsey. Take off your clothes.” Haywood peels off his half-soaked t-shirt and reaches over to help Geoff. “I’m not having you freeze to death for my birthday.” There isn’t a good counterpoint Geoff can think of, so he strips down to his briefs, teeth chattering all the while. Haywood fusses with the seating, sliding some out of the boat’s frame so there’s more open space. “Here’s a towel - I should have expected it to be covered in oil -”

“It’s fine, whatever’s in the damn boat is fine,” Geoff interrupts, teeth clacking. “There’s a blanket in the picnic basket, next to the cooler,” he says between shudders of cold. Haywood lays out the towel and directs Geoff to lie down; a moment later they’re tucked together and shivering under the loose-weave blanket.

“It’s not too bad, kid,” Geoff insists weakly. “I can probably warm up on my own.”

“As if.” Haywood rubs Geoff’s arms rapidly to get some heat going along his skin. Geoff thought his goosebumps couldn’t get pricklier, but something about the closeness with Haywood sends new shivers down his spine that aren’t entirely related to the cold. “Hold me,” the kid says bluntly, before he realizes what he’s said and his cheeks flush pink. “I mean - just - I’m warm, and you need heat at your core.”

“Are you coming onto me, Haywood?” Geoff laughs, but the urge to say something completely cheesy and inappropriate - _you_ are _the heat at my core,_ he thinks - is only fought by the reminders in Haywood’s soft shape and wide grey eyes that this is a _kid_ and Geoff is not only terrible for him, but could go to _prison_ for the things he’s imagining.

Their noses brush against each other, and Geoff swears he hears Haywood’s voice hitch.

_I’m going straight to hell._

“Now that I think about it,” the kid says, licking his lips, “I read somewhere that this is more effective back-to-back. More surface area that way.”

“Right. Great.” They both turn over, muscles tense. “Yeah. Good.”

“You warm up, I’ll think of how to get us to shore. We lost both the oars.”

“Fuck.”

To their great fortune, they wake up beached with the sun firing orange and pink over the horizon. Haywood brushes dried salt out of his jeans as he climbs out of the boat; Geoff feels like cured meat with how much of his skin is covered in itchy, dry crystals. He rescues his wallet from his abandoned clothes and dashes across the sand just wrapped in the blanket.

“Let’s bounce, kid!” he hollers. “Don’t wanna get caught in a stolen boat!”

Haywood follows him to his car, carrying the cooler that still holds beer. “Come to my place,” the kid suggests as he takes the passenger seat. “I know your water’s shut off, and you need a shower.”

They don’t talk about the warming-up from the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can drop in and say hello/pester me for updates/request fic sometimes at [ryanslostfootage](http://ryanslostfootage.tumblr.com). Tags will be updated as I complete chapters.


	2. The Second Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this is out of control. come weep at me on [ryanslostfootage](http://ryanslostfootage.tumblr.com) cause I could use the company in my angsty trash heap. [oh yeah warning: here comes the angst.]

“You know I’m proud of you, right?”

Ryan feels his cheeks go warm. He runs his fingertip along the edge of the letter again, as if checking that it’s real. Ramsey puts a hand on his shoulder and ruffles his hair.

“I knew you’d be goin’ places, kid.”

“I’m not--” Ryan stops himself, folds the letter crisply. “You’re gonna call me a kid until I’m fifty, aren’t you?”

“And you’re gonna be salty about it until I’m six feet under, I know.” Ramsey takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “But I’m serious, Haywood. You’re already miles ahead of where I was at eighteen.” He runs a hand along his bare arm, up into his sleeve to scratch an itch above one of his scattered tattoos. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of Los Santos. You’re gonna kick the world’s ass. And you’re gonna look great doing it.” Ramsey tucks two cigarettes into his mouth and slides the pack away. “Come have a celebration smoke with me.”

 _I don’t smoke,_ Ryan fights the urge to say. He stands from the table, finally letting go of the letter for the first time since he read it. “Yeah. Just this once.”

\---

Ramsey helps Ryan choose a dorm, gives him money for flights to check out campus before the final move, does everything Ryan can imagine to support the leap to college. It’s a little overwhelming, and abnormally _parental_ for Ramsey, but Ryan is about to leave the state for at least four years after living with the old man for almost two. There's probably some separation anxiety. 

Two months before move-in, Ryan notices Ramsey leaving him out of jobs. Normally, Ryan likes to be lookout, sitting in the street on a dirt bike and signaling if there's a whiff of cops, or else he's the door man or the getaway driver. He watches Ramsey's back, gets him home safe at the end of the day. It hadn't been hard to keep up with school while running minor gang games with Ramsey's gaggle of twenty-somethings. But now Ryan gets shooed out of the room for phone calls, told last when a job is going, and - worst of all - left home while Ramsey charges the streets of Los Santos with a pistol.

It’s late on a Monday night when Ramsey pulls on a blazer just oversized enough to notice and tucks his pistol into his belt.

“I’m heading out, buddy. Don’t wait up for me.” He starts toward the door, but Ryan beats him to it, blocks the path with shoulders he swears weren’t this wide six months ago. The startled look on Ramsey’s face makes both of them pause, and Ryan takes the brief moment to harden his expression.

“Another job?” he asks, forcing ice into his tone. Ramsey visibly swallows.

“Nah, just seein’ the boys - Burns wants to take up bowling.”

“And I’m not invited.” Ryan crosses his arms, deliberately flexes his biceps, and realizes now he’s _taller._

“Well, you’re leaving soon - I mean, if we start a…” Ramsey trails off and shrugs out of his jacket. “Fuck it, come on. Let’s talk.” He removes the pistol from his hip and sets it on the unbalanced table by the couch. Ryan loosens the grip he’d held on his intimidation face and clears his throat.

“The hell’s up with you?” he asks as he drops into the couch cushion beside Ramsey.

“You’re leaving.” Ramsey gazes at the floor.

“Yeah, so?” Ryan tries not to look too intently at Ramsey’s face, instead settling on his shoulder. “Does that mean I’m not part of the crew?”

“Well, it’d be pretty fuckin’ hard to pull a job with your lookout across the country, that’s for sure.” Ryan tries not to shiver in the sudden cold silence.

“You’re not wrong,” he concedes quietly. “I just thought I’d have a place to come home to.”

Ramsey makes an indistinct noise, and he’s out the door before Ryan processes that he’s moved. The pistol blurs on the table as Ryan’s eyes fill with tears.

\---

They don’t talk for a few days.

Ramsey returns the next morning smelling of bottom-shelf liquor and cheap perfume, and Ryan excuses himself to his room before either of them say something stupid. The morning after that, Ryan has a flight to campus and drives himself to the airport on two beers and no sleep. He stays in a hotel on his own dime instead of Ramsey’s, feeling an ache as he waits in the stiflingly quiet elevator and tries desperately not to cry. This trip was never supposed to be for or about Ramsey; it’s for _school,_ he insists to himself. He still spends his first night flipping between local news stations instead of anything he’d planned. The unfamiliar reporters fail to ease the hollow feeling in his chest.

The phone rings around nine in the morning, and Ryan wakes to find he passed out with his shoes still on. He grapples for the handset and answers blearily, expecting an entirely-too-cheerful desk clerk to have called the wrong room.

“Haywood?”

“Fuck - _Ramsey?”_ Ryan sits up abruptly, cradling the phone to his ear. “The fuck do you want?”

“Shit, Haywood, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry--” Ramsey’s words slur, and Ryan has to clench his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes too hard.

“Did you drunk dial my fucking hotel room, Ramsey?”

“Maybe, yeah. Maybe I did.” Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose. “But it’s important - fuck - _you’re_ important, Haywood. You’re the most important--”

“Excuse me?” Ryan has to hold himself back from hanging up immediately. “Fuck you, Ramsey. You can’t say I’m important. You don’t _get_ to say I’m important, unless you have a fucking miracle up your ass that’ll make me feel better about the other night.”

They both go quiet for a breath, for two, for three. Then Ramsey’s voice cracks.

“I don’t know, I don’t fucking know - I didn’t think the talk would go there - I didn’t think it would get so heavy.” He talks over himself, and Ryan prays for the patience to let him finish. “I didn’t mean -- I never meant you were out of the crew. Fuck the crew. You _are_ the crew.”

“You have ten seconds before I hang up.”

“Haywood, please.”

“Five,” Ryan corrects.

“Okay, look, just let me get my head on straight - let me think for a second - I just care about you and I’m the shittiest friend and--”

“You’re not wrong about that.” Ryan clears his throat, tries to keep it from clenching as his eyes sting. “Goodbye, Ramsey.”

\---

Ryan moves to a motel within a few days, pays up front for the stay until he can move to campus, and makes a grocery run for whatever cheap basics he can fit in his rental car. He abandons the thought of going back to Los Santos for his belongings; they were just things, and the only ones with sentimental value were because of Ramsey. Ramsey and his crew of shitheads.

A week into his stay, he gets a message from the front desk that one of the crewmates called, leaving the name “CB,” and he recognizes the number left as Sorola’s. He tosses the message.

Another week later, another “CB,” but this number looks more like Hullum’s. This one he dials back, and leaves a voicemail in return.

“If I hear from the Cock Bites again, I’m turning you fuckers in.”

He expects more, but communication drops. The only messages left for him are from locals he’s made connections with in the meantime - he has to make a living, after all. He’s on his own now, so he wears a mask more often, experiments with other disguises, picks a name. Sure, most of the time he’s Ryan Haywood, computer science major from out of town, but by the time school starts, the right people are starting to know him as _Vagabond._

\---

Halfway into fall quarter, Ryan finally decides to check out the hipster cafe on campus. He’s been busy, been putting it off, but a classmate told him there’s a new baristo worth checking out who makes unbelievable sandwiches. So with a few textbooks and materials in his bag, he makes a stop for lunch and a study session.

It’s the laugh that gets his attention. At first, the cafe seems just slightly cozier than most - the furniture is mostly mismatched thrift couches and end tables with missing drawers - but then he hears the baristo laugh, and his heart stops. It’s a laugh that’s cured a hundred rough nights, that’s made his day countless times, that he’d recognize from a coma.

“Man, that’s funny as dicks, dude,” the man finishes saying to his customer. Ryan stares at the smiling face of Geoff Ramsey and his feet feel like cement blocks. The rest of whatever he’s saying turns to nonsense in Ryan’s head, as all he can focus on is the sound of his voice and the fact that it’s _Geoff fucking Ramsey_ in front of him.

The cafe door hits him in the back, and he shuffles forward a little - so maybe his feet aren’t immobilized. He dashes to a corner seat and sets down his bag, taking deep breaths.

Maybe he can leave, he thinks - dart out before Ramsey notices him and just never come back. What the hell would they even say to each other? More importantly, why is Ramsey _here?_ Ryan’s making a space for himself in this alien new city and Ramsey just turns up out of nowhere and has the nerve to be smiling. 

He’s still chewing on his options when Ramsey drops into the seat across from him.

“About time you showed up here,” he chuckles. Ryan frowns hard at him. “I have some stuff of yours. Here.” He passes Ryan a folded envelope and nods. “Come by later. I’ll be home after six.”

“Home?” Ryan’s throat is horribly dry. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“The address to my apartment’s in the envelope. I gotta get back to work; we’ll talk later, alright?” Ramsey stands and runs a hand through his hair. “If you’re hungry, I’ll make you a sandwich on the house. Coffee, too.” And before Ryan can find something to respond with, Ramsey returns to his counter and takes down the little ‘on break’ sign.

Ryan’s hands shake as he unfolds the envelope to investigate the contents: several large bills, an index card with an address, and a photo. He doesn’t look at the picture, just takes the index card and tucks the rest away.

The apartment building is one Ryan’s been to, as it turns out; he played lookout for a group that tried to wreck the penthouse. They scoped it out poorly and tripped two separate alarms, and he hasn’t answered their calls since. He has enough of a nest egg left to be allowed some higher standards.

Ramsey’s given him the entry code.

He doesn’t stay at the cafe for lunch, and there’s no hope of getting any studying done with Ramsey on his mind. He stops at his dorm, checks his voicemail, retrieves a package. It’s three hours before Ramsey will be home, and he has no idea what to do to kill the time.

A handful of small chores later, Ryan realizes it’s pointless to try not to think of Ramsey. He pulls the envelope from his pocket and counts out the bills - two thousand dollars in a mix of fifties and hundreds. He sorts them into his lockbox under his bed and is about to toss the envelope when he remembers the photo. Maybe he should at least take a look.

It’s a nice picture, honestly: Ramsey holding the camera out with one arm, the other wrapped around Ryan’s shoulders; skinny adolescent Ryan grinning like he’s won something. He remembers the bonfire behind them, and the group of kids he absolutely didn’t get along with in that shitty summer camp his high school hosted. He remembers sneaking off with Ramsey after they took the picture, hiding out at least a mile’s hike away and watching this rebellious adult light up a cigarette. The whispered confession that Ramsey wasn’t really a camp counselor, and the relief in his eyes when Ryan merely laughed and hit him in the leg with a stick. Ryan thanked him for making him less miserable at camp, and Ramsey taught him sleight of hand tricks and how to pick pockets.

Ryan’s hands shake and he pinches the edge of the photo, ready to tear it up. But he’s about to visit Ramsey, hopefully talk to him about this shit… He’d regret this. Instead he rips an old t-shirt and chucks the fabric at the wall.

It’s not very satisfying.

He paces campus for the last of his free time, until he checks his watch to finally see it’s six o’clock. He mutters street names under his breath as he maneuvers to the apartments, and when he arrives he punches in the door code without realizing he’s already memorized the damn thing. The index card with the address and code doesn’t leave his pocket until he’s in the elevator and realizes he needs to check the apartment number.

Of course, Ramsey’s in the penthouse. Ryan should have seen this coming, honestly; vivid memories of Ramsey’s expensive tastes flash in his mind as the elevator whirrs upward. The doors slide open before Ryan’s ready, but at least there’s one more door between him and Ramsey’s suite.

He takes a deep breath, shifts his stance, and knocks.

A person with long orange hair and pubescent stubble at the chin opens the door, gives Ryan a once-over, and juts out one skirt-wrapped hip.

“What’re you selling?”

“Nothing.” Ryan goes into work mode, crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m looking for Geoff Ramsey.”

“He’s not expecting anyone.” The stranger pops a bubble of gum and moves to close the door, but Ramsey’s voice hollers from farther inside.

“Let him in, Jack!” The person gives Ryan another look before stepping back and allowing him into the penthouse. It may as well be a mansion for how big the foyer is, and he spots a security camera and two places alarms could be hidden in his first once-over of the room. He follows Jack cautiously through the open floor plan to the kitchen, where Ramsey is just cracking a beer.

“Are you gonna introduce me?” the redhead asks. Ramsey gives an easy laugh and gestures with his bottle.

“Yeah, Jackie, this is Ryan Haywood. Haywood, this is Jack Pattillo.” Ryan offers a handshake and a polite nod, which Jack returns.

“So you’re the guy Geoff won’t shut up about.” Ramsey laughs; Ryan bristles. Something about them being on first-name basis bothers him, especially when Jack’s easily still in high school. Though by the length of the miniskirt-- Ryan stops himself from thinking too much about it and merely arches an eyebrow at Ramsey.

“Look, Jack, we gotta talk for a while. Make yourself busy for a couple hours,” Ramsey says with a little shooing motion. Jack sighs, but leaves after donning one of Ramsey’s blazers. The man himself leads Ryan to a living area with leather couches and a massive television. “Can I get you a beer?”

“No, thanks.” Ryan would rather neither of them were drinking, but it’s a bit late to say so. “What’s her - his? - Jack’s deal?”

“They,” Ramsey says with a wave of his hand. “Jack goes by ‘they,’ but it’s not really my area to comment on. Other than that, Jack’s a kid I made friends with, same as you. Not quite the same way, but similar situation.” Ryan clenches his jaw and has a hard time getting settled into a seat.

“You almost say that like we’re still friends, Ramsey.” He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. Stares at Ramsey’s shoulder. “So are you going to live with them until they’re not convenient, too, or…?” Some part of him takes satisfaction in the way Ramsey’s expression goes dark. The rest just aches.

“That’s not the way I meant things to go.”

“No fucking shit.” Ryan shifts again, leans back, hooks his ankle over his knee. “So how _did_ you want that to go, exactly? What good did you hope would come of cutting me off?”

“I wasn’t cutting you off,” Ramsey says quickly, shaking his head. “I was ending it - I mean - leaving the Cock Bites.”

“You leave the crew by excluding me from jobs?”

“No, I… we were running more dangerous shit for our finale. I didn’t want you mixed up in that, not when you were coming here.” Ramsey rubs the scruff on his chin. “I was tying up loose ends and trying to get you ready for school. I didn’t think… I never _imagined_ it would backfire the way it did.”

“Well, it did. It fucking backfired, and I’m doing just fine by the way.” Ryan keeps the tremble from his voice admirably. “What the fuck are you doing here? Picking up a new disposable teenager in _my city?”_

Ramsey’s hands shake and he sets his beer down. There’s a long silence, and Ryan manages to keep his gaze fixed on the man’s actual eyes this time, watching them search the floor as if the answers are printed there.

“Jack has nothing to do with why I’m here,” he starts, voice cracking. “And more importantly, you were never disposable.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” With his work persona on, Ryan finds it easier to say this shit without his throat clenching. He just wishes he had the mask.

“Look, Haywood - I’m here for _you,_ okay?” Ramsey stands up and gestures freely as he speaks. “I always meant to follow you. It was gonna be a surprise.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorola and Burns and them - I mean, fuck ‘em. They’re good guys but I don’t trust them the way-- fuck.” Ryan hears the way Ramsey’s voice hitches and even his job-face can’t stop the way his chest tightens. “Look, this is… This is about as good as I get, when it comes to words, alright? But I want to start again with you. A new crew.”

Ryan has to look away for a minute. He swallows thickly and stands up, positioning himself in front of Ramsey.

“First. I owe you something,” he says, and for an instant, Ramsey looks hopeful. But then Ryan winds back and punches him straight in the face.

“I deserve that,” Ramsey groans as he sits up from where he landed on the floor. Ryan offers him a hand.

“Yeah, you deserve a few more, but I’ll save those for later.”

“So there’s going to be a later?”

“...Yeah,” Ryan admits, and the admission makes them both visibly relax. “Yeah, you fucker. Come on, let’s get some ice for your stupid face.”

\---

Once the weight of Ryan’s approval is off Ramsey’s shoulders, the evening seems to fly by as the man lets loose his plans for their crew. They’ll build skills and capital here while Ryan’s in school, maybe pick up a few more members if they meet anyone promising, and then take Los Santos by storm. Ramsey’s more animated about it than anything they ever did for the Cock Bites, and it’s infectious as hell. Ryan ends up staying the night - and the next night. And a few after that. They have a surprising amount to catch up on for only being apart a few months: Ryan’s jobs as Vagabond, Ramsey’s move and meeting Jack, both their experiences at the college.

When Ryan does check in at his dorm, it’s only to check messages and get clean clothes. Slowly, his belongings migrate from the room to the penthouse, and by finals week he has nothing left there but bedding. He’s successfully told the majority of his continued contacts to reach him at Ramsey’s. For his part, Ramsey starts deliberately leaving notes about possible jobs around where Ryan will see them, and Ryan finally bites when there’s the suggestion of just the two of them running something.

The day after his last final, Ryan helps Ramsey steal, empty, and return an armored car. Ramsey calls it the best Christmas present he’s ever gotten, and Ryan is pretty sure it was a religious experience.

The next morning, the two of them are leaning over a map on the kitchen table. They both move to look up at each other. Their noses touch, their lips brush, and they freeze.

“So that alley seems ideal,” Ryan finishes saying, though neither of them make a move to separate their faces.

“Yeah.” Ramsey’s mustache tickles faintly. “What exactly are we doing right here?”

“This?” Ryan’s cheeks go warm and pink. “Very… close talking. _Very_ close talking.”

“Sure is.” Ramsey swallows. “Sure fucking is.”

Ryan leans back and makes a mark on the map.


End file.
